“You talk of snow and yet the sun is still hot,” Spotted Pony replied. “The white man is too crazy to know how fast the seasons will change.”
“Maybe Crooked Leg is right and we should have gone with the others to hunt on the other side of these mountains,” Running Bird suggested. “Our food is almost gone.”
“If you had not gone with me before, you would not have that rifle you carry,” Spotted Pony reminded him, “or the bullets to shoot it. There is plenty of time to hunt for the coming winter.”
“I know why you keep coming back to this place,” Crooked Leg, who knew his friend the best, said. “You still look for that devil who killed your brother. He is gone. He just passed through this way and now he is gone and you must cast him from your mind.”
“I come to this place because it is the best place to attack the wagons that bring guns and bullets,” Spotted Pony insisted. “We will need them to fight the Blackfeet.” This was a subject very much on all their minds, for they were raiding far out of their own territory. He started to say more but was interrupted by Running Bird.
“Hush! Someone comes.”
The three Lakota warriors crawled closer to the brow of the ridge. Below on the road the soldiers had built, they saw a rider approaching, leading a packhorse. He was still a good seventy-five yards away, but it was obvious that he was alone. “See,” Spotted Pony said, “two horses, guns, and a loaded packhorse. This will be a good . . .” His voice trailed off as he suddenly stared as if stunned.
“What is it?” Crooked Leg asked. A moment later, he gasped, “Feather In His Hat!” All three stared dumbstruck then as if seeing a vision.
“He has come back!” Spotted Pony whispered, having recovered from the initial shock of seeing the man he had vowed to kill. He would have charged down the slope to attack had not Crooked Leg grabbed his arm and held him. “I knew he would come back.”
“Wait!” Crooked Leg commanded. “He has killed your brother. Would you have him kill you as well? If you go running down this hill, he will see you and kill you before you can get close to him. He is no ordinary white man. His medicine is strong.”
“He must die by my hand,” Spotted Pony declared, still trembling with anticipation. “It is my right. I have sworn to kill him and Man Above has brought him here to this place for my vengeance.”
“It is your right and we will respect it, but why let him know that you have seen him? It is better to surprise him. We will help you ambush him,” Running Bird said. “This is not a good place. He would see us before we could get close enough. Better down there where the road makes a turn through the trees closer to the river.” He pointed to a bend in the road and Spotted Pony quickly agreed, anxious to start. So they backed carefully away from the top of the ridge, down the other side where they had left their horses.
* * *
Hawk had not taken the soldier’s warning about raids on the Mullan Road lightly. He went by way of the road to cut the time it would take to ride from Missoula to Helena, but he knew the risk was greater by doing so. Consequently, he was alert to the sounds of the forest, the river, and the horses. It was a state of alertness that he was in the habit of maintaining any time he was alone in a hostile land. On this day, however, he seemed even more alert than usual and he had to admit that it was because of Miss Emily’s solemn warning that he should be cautious. Hell, I’m always cautious, he thought, then laughed at himself and said, “Except when I ain’t.” What a scary old lady, he thought.
His eyes automatically scanned the high ridge on his left for any hint of movement. As he continued on, he looked ahead about a quarter of a mile to a curve in the road as it entered a stand of firs close to the river. He couldn’t help thinking what a good place it would be for an ambush, but it was just one of a handful of such places he had spotted since leaving Fort Missoula. Just as he had done in those sightings, he continued on until suddenly Rascal’s ears flickered back and he snorted. With no more warning than that, Hawk immediately hauled the reins sharply to his right and gave the buckskin his heels, heading for the bank of the river some ten or twelve feet below him. The shot that rang out at that moment passed high over his head as Rascal dropped down over the bluffs.
Sioux, he thought automatically as he lay low on the buckskin’s neck, his immediate goal a search for cover. Several more shots split the morning air and he was almost jerked from the saddle when his packhorse went down, but he released the lead rope in time to recover. Below the bluffs now, he raced toward a deep gully formed by a stream emptying into the river. It was not the best he could hope for, but it was the closest and its sides were deep enough to protect his horse from rifle fire from above the bluffs. What a waste, he thought, thinking of his packhorse. It had to be a wild shot because he was sure they had intended to gain two horses with their attack. He looked around him for a quick assessment of the spot he had landed in. It would do, he supposed, as long as they didn’t cross over to the other side of the river. If they did, his backside would be unprotected. It occurred to him that he always seemed to find himself in this situation, backed up against a river. The question now was, how many? As near as he could figure, the shots had come from a dense stand of fir trees at a point where the river took a sharp turn back to the south and the road followed it. He couldn’t be too certain, however, because he hadn’t had the opportunity to do much looking while he was trying to keep from ending up like his packhorse. As far as the number of his attackers, he decided they were no more than two or three, based on the volley of shots he heard. With that assumption, he was not inclined to sit there and hold them off until they decided to cross the river where they could shoot into the open mouth of the stream. He didn’t plan to be there when that happened, so it was time to go on the offensive. He was confident that Rascal wouldn’t be in any danger as long as he was protected there in the gully. Even if the Indians came across the river, they would be able to see there was no one but Rascal in the gully. And Rascal was too fine a horse to kill. He would be better off out of the way of gunfire, so he tied his reins to a bush growing out of the side of the gully.
Before slipping out of the gully, he first needed to better pinpoint his assailants, so he crawled up to the edge of it and fired three shots at the stand of trees as rapidly as he could squeeze the trigger and crank in another cartridge. His volley was answered immediately, kicking up dirt on the edge of the gully. In the short time before ducking below the rim, he saw only one muzzle flash, but he counted three shots, fired too rapidly to have come from one rifle. With some idea of the size of the party he was fighting, he slipped out the mouth of the stream and ran downstream. Hunched over as he ran, he was able to remain hidden beneath the river bluffs. When he had run far enough to put him beyond the point where the river turned onto the first part of an S curve, he dropped to his knee behind a clump of bushes. Panting heavily from his sprint, he labored to slow his breathing down in order to hear any small sounds that might give him a clue to his assailants’ whereabouts.
* * *
“Ay-ee!” Spotted Pony cried out in anger when Hawk had suddenly veered off the road and down the bank of the river. “How did he know?” He had shot at him in frustration, causing Crooked Leg and Running Bird to fire, too, and he knew right away that it had been a mistake. For now the hated white man not only knew about the planned ambush, but due to their haste, one of them had killed a good horse.
“I think this white devil’s medicine is strong,” Running Bird said. “We must be very careful.”
“Look,” Crooked Leg said. He was still staring at the gully from which the shots were fired and he could just see the ears of the buckskin horse Feather In His Hat was riding. “He is still in the gully. I think he means to stand us off there.”
Spotted Pony stared at the bluffs and the river behind them. “I think he plans to trick us,” he said. “He thinks that we will come for him from the road and from each side. I think he is not as smart as he thinks. This is what we w
ill do.” He sent Crooked Leg to circle around the trees to his right, then he sent Running Bird to do the same to his left. “You will keep him from escaping to either side while I cross over the river. He has nothing to protect him from behind.” They all agreed that this was the obvious plan of attack and while his two companions hurried to take their positions, Spotted Pony jumped on his horse and sped off upriver to find a place to cross without being spotted.
* * *
Feeling confident that he could not be seen over the bluffs, Hawk hurried out the mouth of the gully into the river, holding his rifle above the water as he made his way across. The water was a little over waist deep on him, so he waded with his cartridge belt around his neck. There was a good possibility that he might be seen when he reached the other bank and climbed up out of the river. So he headed toward a clump of willow trees whose branches hung out over the water. So far, so good, he thought as he climbed up through the willows without a shot being fired in his direction. Now, if I can find a good place to watch that gully—and that looks like the spot, he thought, looking at a shallow cut halfway down a hummock that sloped down to the river. This ain’t the first time I’ve used this trick, he couldn’t help recalling, and I can’t think of a better plan for the fix I’m in right now. There was nothing left but to wait to see how it all worked out.
He didn’t have to wait long before he spotted a warrior working his way cautiously along the opposite river bluffs to the left of the gully he had abandoned. He raised his rifle and sighted it on the warrior, but did not pull the trigger. He was sure the warrior couldn’t see over the side of the gully, so he waited, confident that there would be another advancing on the right side of the gully. A moment later, he sighted him, closing in. Now, if I figured this right, he thought, the third one will be showing up in the bluffs below me on this side. He waited patiently in spite of the two open targets he could see across the river. The third man should have shown up by then. Maybe he was wrong. Maybe there were only two, but if that was the case, what were they waiting for? His answer came immediately in the form of a shadow cast upon the ground below him. He had been outfoxed! The Lakota warrior Spotted Pony stood at the top of the hummock above him, his rifle aimed at him.
“How strong your medicine now, Feather In His Hat?” Spotted Pony sneered. “How fast you turn to shoot?” he asked in his broken English, challenging him to try.
Hawk knew he had no chance, no matter how fast he might be. There was no way he could turn and shoot up over his head before the Indian pulled the trigger. The dominant emotion he felt was disgust at having been outfoxed. Fear was an emotion he had no experience with and he had always expected his luck would run out one day, just as every man’s did. Best I can do is maybe put a bullet in him, too, he thought, and prepared to make his final move. For even if he managed to kill the warrior standing above him, his chances of defending himself from the other two were slim.
“Know that it is Spotted Pony of the Lakota that kills you,” he said. “You kill my brother. You die now.”
Even before he spun around, Hawk heard the rifle shot. Shocked and confused, he just managed to avoid the falling body of the warrior as it crashed heavily into the trench beside him. With no time to figure out what had just happened, his reactions took over in time to permit him to turn back to get off a kill shot on one of the warriors across the river. At almost the same time, a shot from above him knocked the remaining warrior down. He couldn’t believe he was still alive. It could only be an army patrol tracking the hostiles. Anxious to find out who had saved him right in the nick of time, he started to climb out of the trench, but was stopped stone-still by what could only be a hallucination. “Roy Nestor!” he exclaimed.
“Hello, Hawk,” Nestor sneered, while holding his rifle on him. “It’s kind of a queer turn of things, ain’t it? I mean, it looks like I just saved your bacon, don’t it? Who’da thought I’d be the one to come along to save your ass? Only, it ain’t gonna work out that way, ’cause I just didn’t want no damn Injun takin’ the pleasure of killin’ you. Them Injuns almost spoiled my party, but I just let ’em set you up for me. When I saw what they had in mind, I just stayed right behind ’em. They didn’t even know I was followin’ ’em. They was so fired up on the chance to kill you, and I always was a better tracker than you. And I know all your tricks. This here is the same one you pulled on me that night on the Missouri when you damned near killed me. Yes, sir, if there’s one thing I know, it’s that you’re just full of tricks. I know what you’re thinkin’ right now, so why don’t you just drop that Winchester before I cut you down?”
Hawk could see that he had little choice. If he had any chance at all, it would be to keep Nestor talking. Knowing him as well as he did, he was sure he wanted to gloat over his upper hand before killing him. He also knew that, slim as it was, there was a chance to put a bullet in him, if he could act fast enough. So he put his rifle down, as ordered, propping it against the side of the trench so as to make grabbing it easier.
Nestor was quick to respond. “Uh-uh, that ain’t gonna work. Pick it up by the barrel and toss it outta that trench.” He chuckled, obviously enjoying his advantage. “I told you, I know all your tricks. Too bad Lieutenant Conner ain’t here to save you now, ain’t it?”
Reluctant to do so, but knowing he’d be shot right away if he didn’t, Hawk tossed his rifle down the hummock. When he did, his eye settled on Spotted Pony’s rifle, lying at his feet near the body. Was it ready to fire? From the angle he viewed it, he couldn’t see if the hammer was cocked. That could be critical in the event he made a play for it, and that rifle was the only chance he had. It might mean the difference between living and dying. He was betting on a cartridge in the chamber ready to fire. The Indian was just ready to pull the trigger when he was struck by Nestor’s bullet. He had to have cocked his rifle.
“You thought I was runnin’ from you, didn’t you?” Nestor asked.
“That’s what I figured you were good at,” Hawk replied, goading him to continue running his mouth.
“Smart-ass right to the end, ain’t you? Well, you can see now that I weren’t runnin’. For the past week I’ve been lookin’ for you—wanted to pay you what I owe you. I’ve always been a better man than you—better scout, better tracker—and that’s why I’m standin’ up here holdin’ the rifle and you’re standing in a damn ditch that’s gonna be your grave.” He paused to see if Hawk had any comeback for that, but Hawk didn’t respond, so Nestor continued. “I think maybe I’ll hack off your topknot and send it to Lieutenant Meade. You was always his favorite. Maybe I’ll send a piece of you to your good friend Lieutenant Conner.” He brought the rifle up to his shoulder. “Yessir, I’ve been lookin’ forward to this. Maybe I’ll start by shootin’ you in the foot,” he said, thinking about the missing toes on his right foot, the result of Hawk’s humiliating him in the street at Bozeman.
Hawk finally decided he was not improving his chances for survival by letting Nestor run on about his hatred for him and he was just wasting time, so he figured to take his shot. “You know, Nestor, you always were full of shit. I don’t know if you can even hit me from that far away.”
“Why, you son of a bitch,” Nestor blurted, and pulled the trigger. Anticipating his reaction, Hawk dived at the same time, picking up Spotted Pony’s rifle as he rolled over the Indian’s body. Nestor’s bullet caught him in the side, but not before he put a shot in the middle of Nestor’s forehead. His body dropped like a lead weight, facedown on the slope of the hummock, then slid slowly down to settle on top of Spotted Pony. Hawk sat staring at him for a long moment to make sure he was dead, barely able to believe the events of the past few minutes. Nestor was dead, all right. A neat bullet hole almost dead center his forehead verified that. Hawk was well aware that luck had a huge part in it, for he had tried to hit him in the chest, but his shot had been high. He could blame it on Spotted Pony’s rifle if he needed an excuse. But being completely honest about it, he felt he was lucky
to have hit him at all, considering the desperate move he had been forced to make. Whatever, he decided, if it was fate that stepped in, fate was a hell of a marksman, with a shot right between the eyes.
For a long moment, he continued to sit there and stare at the twisted features of the corpse. He never would have figured Roy Nestor had the guts to come after him. The two men had a strong dislike for each other almost since the first day they met. There had been a competition between them since the first, but Hawk had never realized the extent of it until now. He had always attributed Nestor’s attitude to a contempt for everyone and not just him.
A pain in his side brought his attention back to the present situation. He was alive, but he hadn’t escaped unharmed. He looked down at his buckskin shirt to discover a large blood-soaked circle. “I swear,” he muttered, “I’m just bound and determined to mess up my one good shirt.” He pulled the shirt up to look at the hole in his side, which was still pumping blood freely. “Damn,” he swore. “That don’t look good.” I’m still wearing a bandage on my shoulder, now this. Holding his hand tightly over the wound, he climbed out of the trench. His clean shirt was in his saddlebag, he would stuff it inside his shirt to stop the bleeding. Although in some pain and leaking blood, he didn’t feel incapacitated, so he walked down to the water’s edge so that Rascal could see him. He whistled, but the big buckskin failed to respond. He remembered then that he had decided to tie him. “Damn,” he swore again, this time at the horse. “Can’t you even untie a simple knot? I reckon you need fingers for that,” he allowed on second thought. “What the hell . . .” he mumbled, and waded into the river.
Definitely hampered, but determined to reap the benefits of his double encounter, he took some time to find Nestor’s horse and packhorse to replace his packhorse shot by the Sioux. He gathered all the weapons and ammunition he could find, then went through Nestor’s packs, taking anything of use to him and discarding the rest. The last thing he did was to ride through the thick stand of trees at the curve of the river where he found the three Indian ponies tied. Thinking them worth the effort, he fashioned lead ropes for what was now a string of five horses to trail along behind Rascal. By then, it was getting along in the afternoon, but he figured he could make it to Conner’s encampment if he was still there. If Conner was gone, he could still make Fagan’s trading post before dark, even though he was feeling a great deal of discomfort in his side. On the other hand, he felt that he had an obligation to return to the Triple-P to tell Monroe and the others that Roy Nestor was dead. He knew Monroe was carrying a heavy load of guilt on his shoulders for not tracking his brother’s killer down. Maybe the news would free him of the burden. After all, Hawk figured, a man’s mind ought to be free of guilt so he can enjoy his honeymoon. He thought about it for a few minutes. He was closer to Fagan’s than he was to the Triple-P and he was already feeling the effects of his wound more and more. He decided to keep going toward Fagan’s and bypass Lieutenant Conner’s camp. Conner had no surgeon with his company, so the next best thing to a doctor would be Minnie Red Shirt, Rubin Fagan’s wife. His wouldn’t be the first gunshot wound she had worked on. Judging by the blood he had already lost, he was afraid he might not make it to the Triple-P.
Hell Hath No Fury Page 24